


A Moroccan Tradition

by butwordsarewind (sungabraverday)



Series: Cities Headcanons [16]
Category: Paris Burning (thecitysmith)
Genre: Gen, Morocco - Freeform, Personified Cities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-31
Updated: 2014-07-31
Packaged: 2018-02-11 04:24:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2053497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sungabraverday/pseuds/butwordsarewind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On periodic evenings, just before the sun sets, a series of figures slip into a quiet riad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Moroccan Tradition

On periodic evenings, just before the sun sets, a series of figures slip into a quiet riad. It’s always in different places, because in this it is important to be fair, but tonight they are in the Capital, Rabat.

Casablanca is the first to arrive. His shoes are slick leather and his suit is crisply tailored, but his face is drawn and weary. He opens the door with purpose, quick and brisk, and it’s closed again just seconds later.

Marrakech arrives next, a flute sticking out from the top of the bag on his back. At the bottom of the bag, something shifts, coils and twists, and then settles again. He pays it no mind. He is a showman, but this is not the place for a performance.

Meknès arrives next. Her djellaba is as green as her fields, and her headscarf is deep red. When she flicks it back from her face, her eyes flash cold steel and blood. Fez is on her arm, and unlikely companion. He is old now, stooped but not frail. His djellaba is fine and white, just as his hair. The cane he wears across his back is not a support but a weapon.

Essaouira arrives as the calls to prayer echo though the city’s streets. Her hair is loose and windswept, her clothes a riot of colours and patterns. She is only a few moments late, refusing to be bound completely by their rules.

Her stubbornness is nothing though, next to Salé. Though he’s the closest to Rabat, he’ll be the last to appear. The rest of Morocco’s Cities - Agadir, Tangier, Oujda, Safi, Tétouan, Ouarzazate, all the others - won’t come tonight. There are rules. Once the tea is poured, the doors are closed.

Rabat brings out a tray, an array of glasses, and a large silver teapot with steam rising from the spout. He places it in front of Fez, a gesture of respect to a City that has been Capital more times than he. He is as smooth as a politician, and as gracious as a carpet salesman, and his teapot is as well used as both of those professions require.

For a moment, there is silence.

Salé appears in the door frame, teeth flashing like stars against skin like night. “Waiting for me?” he asks, settling into the couch beside Rabat and flinging his arm around his twin brother’s shoulders. He is as brash as his brother is composed, a corsair in years gone by. 

The light aroma of mint fills the air as Fez lifts the teapot high, pouring with the grace of thousands of years of experience, and they begin to talk. And as one, they take their glasses and sip the sweet tea in a bond of friendship and family that supersedes everything else, just for a moment.


End file.
